The Capture of Troy/English National Opera, Coliseum,London<br></br> Die Zauberflöte, Royal Opera House, London <br></br>Idomeneo/Opera North, Grand Theatre, Leeds

Berlioz put to death by deconstruction

If veiled Andromache is Jackie O – as is hinted by a monochrome film of Hector that quotes extensively from footage of JFK's private moments – and little Astynax is JFK Jr, who are the Greeks? Are they Cubans? Russians? The Black Panthers? Al Qa'ida? Is the fall of Troy the Cuban Missile Crisis? The Kent State Tragedy? Or 11 September? I, for one, am very confused.

Stewart Laing's set and costume designs for The Capture of Troy – the first half of director Richard Jones's epic ENO and San Franciso Opera co-production of The Trojans – make liberal use of these and other period-specific images from recent American history. Jones appears to be saying that Virgil's melt-down scenario of invasion, disorder and mutually assured destruction could happen anywhere – in America, that is – and at any time since the proliferation of nuclear weapons. Is this not stating the obvious? Not quite. By presenting a ritualised, pick'n'mix, Twin Towers and Camelot, Little League and Letterman, boardroom and Berkeley cliché of America as Troy, Jones is, I think, deconstructing the first two acts of Berlioz's The Trojans while drawing a parallel between classical mythology and popular culture. (Whether this is a good time to mount a production that starts with smouldering aircraft fuselage at street level and ends with people throwing themselves out of a burning high-rise is another question.)

Visually arresting it may be – not least in the bloodied appearance of Hector's ghost, who does here for an Eames swivel-seat what Norman Bates's mother did for the rocking chair in Hitchcock's Psycho – but deconstructing The Capture of Troy in the style of CNN does little to promote any appreciation of Berlioz's score. So perplexed was I by the inconsistencies in Jones's American analogue that few details of the musical performance registered. (Those that did were efficient rather than outstanding, with the exception of Hale Hambleton's dustily plangent clarinet solo.) Among the cast of ENO stalwarts (John Daszak, Robert Poulton, Gerard O'Conner, Iain Paterson and Victoria Simmonds) gamely attempting to project their lines beyond the sprinting chorus and intrusive iconography, Susan Bickley's Cassandra is the only character to convey more than headless-chicken panic or macho militarism.

Hands fluttering at invisible attacks to her face and hair (another Hitchcock reference?), knees buckling in the near-constant traffic of bodies, her chill, implacable voice biting through the tortoiseshell sheen of horn-heavy orchestration, Bickley dominates this production like a warrior queen. But hers is the one modern-age metaphor that works. Cassandra's absolute belief in premonition – like love, fear, rage, or any other absolute emotion – is presented as embarrassing to her intimates and potentially disturbing to the wider society of Troy. In Act One she is drugged into silence like a Sixties housewife and left weeping on the bleechers near a carnival grotesque from the Macy's parade of Cowboys and Indians that precedes the entrance of the Trojan Horse. In Act Two she is the catalyst of mass hysteria. Way to go, Betty Friedan! The Trojan women, variously clad in flower-power caftans, secretarial skirt-suits, soccer-mom separates and "Go for the burn!" work-out gear, strum peacenik guitars instead of lyres before their suicide. Some will snigger, some will be outraged, some will be dismayed by this image. (Each of these reactions was evident at the first performance.) But this apparently frivolous gesture poses what is perhaps the most serious question that Jones is asking: is it possible to feel sympathy for people we may find ridiculous?

Now this is an interesting question; one that remains unanswered after every atrocity and will be pertinent to both the doves and hawks in a contemporary audience. But it is, I think, wholly inappropriate to this opera. What is lost in this over-intellectualised reading is sensuality; the definitive quality of Berlioz's score, which boasts a thick pelt of colour beyond the unambiguous primaries of cathode-ray culture or the dry conceits of critical theory. It may be that Part Two of The Trojans – which opens in May under the same director but with another designer – will make more sense of The Capture of Troy than I could on its first night. It may be that the best way to understand Jones's concept is to wait until both halves come together in 2004. But what Jones has deconstructed so far is not Berlioz's opera, it is America – and even that deconstruction is perplexingly naive. My advice to those of you who have already booked your tickets is to take three things: a dictionary of Modern American History, a dictionary of Classical Mythology, and a large pinch of salt. And, when you get home, listen to the recording of Sir Colin Davis's concert performances of The Trojans – just so you know what you've missed.

Which brings me to Die Zauberflöte at Covent Garden; staged by David McVicar as a magical tribute to Ingmar Bergman – though also nodding to Karl Friedrich Schinkel, Wright of Derby, and, I presume by accident, Steven Spielberg – and conducted as a stately rebuke to historically informed performance practice by Sir Colin. I've given up being surprised that the vigour and incision in Davis's interpretations of other works becomes a hazy, blissed-out sigh of pleasure as soon as he touches Mozart. (If you can't put up with exceedingly long semi-quaver up-beats in the overture, this is not the production for you.) But there are many compensating virtues; chief of which is that same, problematically omnipresent, radiance. Davis is wonderful with singers; effortlessly balancing the ensembles and coaxing a dewy, blushing sincerity from his lovely Pamina (Dorothea Röschmann) and earnest Tamino (Will Hartmann). With Simon Keenlyside's balletic, Buster Keatonish Papageno (so clever a performance as to be almost distracting), an excitingly frigid trio of Ladies (Gillian Webster, Christine Rice and Yvonne Howard), a charming trio of Boys (Zico Shaker, Tom Chapman and John Holland-Avery), and Thomas Allen's luxurious Speaker, this is an irresistible production: cute at even its weakest points, gorgeous at its most serious, and tear-inducingly touching at its sweetest. Thumbs down to Diana Damrau's unnecessarily arch Queen of the Night (enough special effects already without the sforzandi, thanks) and the muddled hierarchy of costumes, but totally delightful as a whole.

What with Bergman at Covent Garden and CNN at the Coliseum, Opera North's purely theatrical production of Idomeneo is a breath of fresh air. To be scrupulously honest, the singing and playing here would benefit from some of Davis's luminescence. (I'm also not entirely comfortable with the sound of modern instruments in such a consciously antique tragédie lyrique.) But in terms of argument, impetus and cohesion Idomeneo beats both London shows. Conductor David Parry cuts to the bones of Mozart's score; razing any sentimentality or ponderousness from what is a vicious conflict between personal desire and patriotic sacrifice. In Tim Albery's cool, clear, timeless staging, the characters speak plainly; their gestures at once looking back to the baroque and forward to a less structured, more naturalistic mode of expression. Natasha Marsh's ardent Ilia shows great promise, well matched by Paula Hoffman as Idamante. With a fiercely engaged performance from the orchestra, some superb chorus work, and a shocking twist at the end, Opera North have followed their striking Tosca with another – albeit more subtle – triumph.

a.picard@independent.co.uk

'The Capture of Troy': Coliseum, London WC2 (020 7632 8300) to 27 February. 'Die Zauberflöte': Royal Opera House, London WC2 (020 7304 4000) to 17 February. 'Idomeneo': Leeds Grand Theatre (0113 222 6222) to March 1, then on tour